


Don't Fake It Baby, Lay The Real Thing On Me

by grocketinmypocket



Series: Press Your Space Face Close To Mine, Love [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, And Peter Is Okay With That, As Fluffy As These Two Ever Get, Bestiality, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, If You Don't Think Peter Quill Is Pansexual We Can't Be Friends, M/M, Oral Sex, Rocket Considers Slut A Term of Endearment, Rocket Is A Freak Between The Sheets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grocketinmypocket/pseuds/grocketinmypocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter privately thought -- and would not divulge this information even upon pain of death because if Rocket knew that he thought this, he would <i>actually</i> kill him, like, literally murder him for real, and they would never find the body -- that Rocket in Rocket-sized pajama bottoms and t-shirt was possibly <i>the most adorable goddamn thing he'd ever seen.</i> He was like a real-life Disney character, if Disney characters were allowed to be thuggish, violent ex-cons, shoot people, drink, swear, and be a bossy, mean top with a filthy mouth in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Fake It Baby, Lay The Real Thing On Me

**Author's Note:**

> It doesn't look like I will ever get back to this story any time soon, thought I do hope to add more chapters when I can. In apology, I'll be posting the next fic in this series, which I was waiting to post until this Four Plus One fic was finished. Sorry, I hope the new fic will make up for my crappy handling of this fic in particular.

The third time they had sex, and the second time that Peter had been the one to suggest it, Peter almost managed to fuck everything up before they even got started.

Apparently after you save the galaxy, a massive amount of people have lots of very important reasons to talk to you, take holos of you, interview you, debrief you, examine you -- someone who obviously hadn't been cleared for Rocket-safe behavior got bitten for trying to insist he submit to a med exam because he was so "unique," and Peter thought they should count themselves fortunate that there was enough of the fingers left to re-attach, shame about the thumb -- and in general keep you running ragged until you begin to wish you hadn't saved the goddamn thing in the first place, and wouldn't have if you'd known it would be this much trouble, frankly.

For a week solid after the dance-off that saved the galaxy, Peter and Rocket spent much of the day in each other's company, without any time or space to speak privately. Peter wasn't sure what they would say, really, but there hadn't been time once the re-fitting of the Milano began and they were kept busy approving changes to the ship as it was being re-built. Rocket intended to hold Peter to his promise of a half-stake in Peter's ship, and intended to have more than half a say, because Peter had come to understand that _"fifty-fifty"_ meant _"I will hound you to death until you cave in and we do things my way, asshole"_ in Rocket-ese.

He thought he was beginning to puzzle Rocket out, learning to read his body language (when his ears go back, you should probably stop talking; when his tail is held stiffly away from his body, you fucked up, bro; when he starts doing that scary-as-hell writhing/twitching thing with his muzzle you need to _fucking run_ if you like to keep all your blood on the inside of your skin), figuring out what it was that Peter just did or said that made Rocket put his ears back and snarl or turn cold and stop talking to Peter for four hours or "accidentally" shock him with whatever terrifying thing he was tinkering with if Peter got too close while Rocket was bomb-building-slash-sulking.

It was his hubris at believing that he was finally starting to understand Rocket that led Peter to conclude that what he and Rocket needed was to 1) have a good fuck and blow off some steam, kinda celebrate getting the Milano back in the morning; 2) make good use of that massive, fancy bed on their last night in it; and 3) re-kindle the bromance, so to speak. Peter had decided that despite never having had a sexual or romantic relationship in his entire life that lasted longer than a loaf of bread, he was going all in on this. Once upon a time he would have been devoting all his energy to seducing Gamora into his bed, but he found himself continually bemused that he just didn't want to anymore. He was having a good time right where he was. He wasn't seducing Rocket into not turning him in for the price on his head by this time; this had become its own thing, strange and fun and weirdly passionate and decidedly kinky. 

There hadn't actually been any weirdly passionate and decidedly kinky sex happening whatsoever this past week, though -- both of them fell asleep too quickly, exhausted from a long day, for anything like that to happen. They'd really barely even spoken. If they weren't busy working nearby but not together, eating with the rest of the crew, or sleeping like the dead, Rocket was sitting somewhere with Groot's pot, talking to him in a gentle voice that would harden into his usual tough-guy growl if someone came close enough to hear. Peter would actually have liked to sit and talk to the little guy too -- he'd heard talking to plants made them grow, it couldn't hurt -- but Groot was never far from Rocket's side, and Peter's latest close call with an irate Rocket had come when he tried to put his headphones around Groot's pot and play "Cherry Bomb" for him. He'd thought sourly of making a chart: 0 Days Since Rocket Bit Me, and Not In the Fun Way.

His thoughts at the moment, though, were fond and actually kind of sweet, because Peter privately thought -- and would not divulge this information even upon pain of death because if Rocket knew that he thought this, he would _actually_ kill him, like, literally murder him for real, and they would never find the body -- that Rocket in the Rocket-sized pajama bottoms and t-shirts that Nova Corps had provided for his use while they slept in Nova Headquarters accommodations was possibly _the most adorable goddamn thing he'd ever seen._ He was like a real-life Disney character, if Disney characters were allowed to be thuggish, violent ex-cons, shoot people, drink, swear, and be a bossy, mean top with a filthy mouth in bed.

Peter thought that maybe it was a sign of personal growth or something that he could simultaneously think Rocket was cute as a button; that he was a formidable, dangerous fighter and to never let the cuteness obscure that; that he was a genius that made Peter feel dumber than a box of hair at least twice a day; and that he was fucking hot when he got demanding and surly and talkative with Peter when they fucked. The talking dirty thing especially was very high on Peter Quill's List of My Favorite Things Ever, right up there with his ship, his mixtapes, and his Walkman. And, Peter was coming to realize, Rocket himself.

He had never, not once, been able to stop himself from smiling when he saw Rocket in his little jim-jams, not a single night this week so far, and when Rocket caught sight of him smiling as he came into the room to get into bed, he would scowl, curl up so close to the edge of the bed that Peter would doze off half listening for the thump when he finally did fall off, and sleep angrily _at_ Peter. Peter had never even known that was a thing -- how can you _sleep_ angrily? _How is he even doing that?_ Tonight, however, Peter was trying something new: as soon as he felt the "oh god he's adorable" smile starting to bloom, he turned it into a far less innocent expression, shooting for the "filthily inviting smile" end of the scale. His well-practiced scoundrel's grin had never failed him before.

Rocket ignored him, making sure Groot's pot was secure on the nightstand, turning out the light on Peter's seductive smile, and clinging to the edge of the bed again like the mattress was lava. Peter decided to be undeterred, at least unless the "stop that shit" growling that raised the tiny hairs on the back of Peter's neck started, and in that case he was going to sleep in the living room for his own personal safety. He slid across the bed toward Rocket, reaching out to put one hand on his waist. "You wanna fuck?" Peter asked. 

Rocket squirmed away from him even farther -- Peter was half convinced he was fucking _levitating_ over the floor at the edge of the bed at this point -- and sneered, "No thanks, not in the mood for another pity fuck."

"What?" Peter was honestly shocked. "That's not what this is."

"Oh, really? You laugh at me every time you see me in this fuckin' get-up. You think I'm some funny little THING. Either you're a fuckin' pervert that wants to fuck an animal -- it's either that, or you just wanna do it because you feel sorry for me, for a fucked up little freak like me."

" _What,_ " Peter began, reaching out for Rocket again, "Jesus, Rocket, no -- that's not it at all." He put his hand on Rocket's waist as he'd meant to before. He wanted to pull Rocket up against him, but that would probably be pushing it much too far. "I smile when I see you because I _like_ you, because I'm _happy_ to see you. You're not an animal to me -- you're like a thousand times smarter than me, man, so if we go by brains here _you're_ the one doing it with a big dumb hairless monkey."

"You _are_ really fuckin' dumb," Rocket said, and Peter felt the tension draining out of him.

"Thanks, I think."

"You're welcome. Monkey-boy." 

"Can I get closer to you?" Peter asked, and Rocket sighed and shoved back against him instead. Peter ended up with Rocket's head tucked under his chin and Rocket's back snug against his belly. Peter felt himself get hard immediately, and waited to see what Rocket would do.

"You really are a freak for me, aren't ya?" Rocket said, and if Peter hadn't already been hard his cock would have perked up immediately at the new tone in Rocket's voice.

"Yeah," Peter replied, rolling his hips against Rocket and sliding his hand around to grab Rocket's cock.

"Nuh-uh," Rocket snapped, and moved so that he was on his knees next to Peter. "I touch you, you don't touch me."

"But --"

"No. Those're the rules. If you wanna play, that's the way it goes." Now Rocket was waiting to see what Peter would do.

"Okay," Peter said, rolling onto his back and putting his hands up above his head as if he was bound to the headboard. Lying there cocooned in the velvet dark with just Rocket's voice guiding him was even better than a blindfold. He knew Rocket could see him perfectly well -- before he'd been experimented on, Rocket's natural night vision as a raccoon had been just slightly better than a human's, but now he could see Peter's every move in the dark with crystal clarity, and Peter wanted him to see that he was perfectly willing to do as bid.

"I like the position, but lose the clothes," Rocket ordered, and Peter dragged his t-shirt off over his head, sleep pants down his legs, and spread himself back out for Rocket's inspection, hands above his head again. "Move your leg," Rocket said, slapping Peter's thigh. Peter lifted his leg out of the way to let Rocket get in between them, and when Rocket sat down as if he was planning on spending some quality time right where he was, Peter trembled, anticipation threading through him because this was going to be _so. good._ "Keep your hands right where they are, Quill," Rocket warned him, and then Peter cried out into the dark because there was a warm, wet, agile tongue on his cock.

Peter gave up very quickly on trying to pin down just exactly how the shape of Rocket's mouth and muzzle changed the experience of being blown because it was too fucking good not to devote his entire attention to. Rocket was carefully covering his teeth with his lips -- and Peter would be lying if he said that the idea of how very sharp those teeth were wasn't pretty fucking hot all on its own, although he appreciated the courtesy. The only downside, as Peter saw it, was that Rocket couldn't talk and suck him off at the same time. Rocket teased him for a long time, bringing him close to the edge and then dancing away from it again. After a certain point, no power in the galaxy could keep Peter from babbling, and somewhere in his fuck-drunk stream-of-consciousness narration he started fairly begging Rocket to _please just fuck me, for god's sake, you're fucking killing me, man._

Rocket laughing around a mouthful of Peter's dick was Peter's newest, most absolute favorite thing, he decided. Right up there with Rocket himself. "Such a fuckin' whore for it," Rocket said, kneeling up between Peter's legs. "Look in the drawer, see if there's some kinda lube," he told Peter, and Peter twisted over to the nightstand so that he could feel around in the dark. 

"Is this it?" he asked, handing Rocket a slim tube from the drawer after a moment's fumbling. _Thank god for Nova Corps and their dedication to preparedness,_ Peter thought gratefully.

"Yep," Rocket replied, after reading the label with his night-sharp eyes, and handed the tube right back to him. "Loosen yourself up for me."

Peter obeyed, putting on a show in the pitch blackness for Rocket's view alone, spreading his legs and adding fingers as quickly as he could take them.

"Get good n' stretched out, 'cause I'm gonna fuck ya so hard you'll haveta limp your way up the ramp to the fuckin' ship tomorrow."

"I'm as ready as I'm gonna get and if you keep me waiting any more I'm never gonna forgive you, just FYI."

"Nah, you're gonna forgive me, soon as I do this," Rocket said, and thrust deep into Peter.

"You smug bastard," Peter said with a groan, arching his back like a drawn bowstring and clenching his fingers into the sheets under his head to keep his hands where they were supposed to be.

"Jerk yourself off for me," Rocket commanded. 

"Jesus Christ, _finally_ ," Peter moaned, and yanked one hand out from under his head to grab his aching, throbbing cock.

"Thought I was a smug bastard," Rocket said, pushing Peter's legs up and back. "Now I'm a god?"

" _Yes_ ," Peter answered with feeling. "You can be anybody you want to be as long as you _keep doing that_."

"You're such a slut," Rocket said in a tone so fond that it was practically a declaration of love -- at least for Rocket -- and kept doing it.

Rocket fell silent again, as he had the first time they fucked -- for his part, Peter barely noticed, because he was too busy feeling his brain and spinal column shorting out from every thrust. He'd never really been that crazy about getting fucked before Rocket, had never thought of himself as a bottom. Now he felt almost crushingly sorry for his younger self that he'd never experienced this. Rocket was nailing him right to the fucking bed again, at an exquisitely perfect angle that made Peter see fireworks behind his eyes and make promises that not even he could understand as they spilled from his mouth. Peter came before Rocket did, splattering cum onto his own belly and then lying pliant and satisfied under Rocket as he came, too.

Rocket laid down next to him, not exactly putting space between them but not encouraging any more contact than Peter's arm under his back. Peter had never considered himself a cuddler, any more than a bottom, but now he felt obscurely disappointed. Rocket was practically a living teddy bear...who hated to cuddle. Peter realized his life was a very strange place when that little factoid was the thing he found weirdest about Rocket. 

"Still think I'm pity-fucking you?" Peter asked, feeling the sweat dry on his chest and throat in the cool air of the room. 

"I think you're fucked up," Rocket finally said, after a long pause.

"I resemble that remark," Peter said drowsily, rolling over onto his side to face Rocket.

"So do I," Rocket replied. "We're both fucked up."

"Good," Peter said, and fell asleep. 


End file.
